


A real good time

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [18]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: Depression will make any relationship dysfunctional, and this one's already pretty wonky.
Series: The Roadhouse Blues [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713





	A real good time

Vinnie wasn't asleep, but he wasn't really awake, either. He was drifting in limbo, the twilight world of shades of gray, and cool air that promised sunshine. Comfortable, cocooned, ready to let himself fall again, sleep 'til noon . . . .

Sonny was awake. As usual. It was fucking dawn, so of course Sonny was awake, and in his bed—

Vinnie pretended to be fully asleep as Sonny lay against his back, stroking his hair, whispering his name, saying it aloud. One hand went to his crotch, found indifference, stayed to incite. Somehow this annoyed Vinnie more than anything. He wasn't in the mood, didn't feel like being in the mood. He didn't feel like anything. The pretense that this was about **them** was irritating. He turned over, dislodging Sonny's hand. "It's the middle of the night. What do you want?" He always knew, nearly always made Sonny tell him, made him ask, at least. Request. Acknowledge. Something.

Sonny kissed him, hand going back to his crotch, tongue sliding into his mouth. Vinnie kissed back, waiting for the complaint about his beard, pretending to ignore it. _You an' my mother an' Frank._ He didn't say it, let himself be kissed, fondled to something a little more spirited than apathy, but not much, and it was gone the second Sonny's hand moved on. He wanted to insist Sonny let him sleep, but he'd followed that path of the maze before, run smack dab into the nowhere it led to. He wanted to say _fine, fine, let's just do it, I'll get on my knees, you put it in my mouth, we'll get you off, **then** can I go back to sleep? _But that led only to more petting, more "foreplay," more "inclusion" he didn't want. He wasn't in the mood. Sonny didn't get that, didn't want to get it, would not get it. Sonny would rub him raw trying to get him hard, wouldn't take no for an answer and wanted only yes, whispered back with adoration. Vinnie wanted to sleep.

"Fuck this," he said, pulling his mouth from Sonny's. "C'm'on, let's do it." He got off the bed, pulled Sonny to his feet, knelt in front of him. Sonny seemed startled by this sudden acquiescence, or enthusiasm, or whatever he was doing, Vinnie didn't know. Whatever it was, Sonny was dubious. "C'm'on," Vinnie repeated, "put it in my mouth." He tried to sound less impatient, more aroused, ended up sounding more wooden than anything.

"C'm'on, it doesn't have to be like this," Sonny objected, and Vinnie strained not to roll his eyes, to snap back sarcastically. "We're in no hurry here—"

"I am," Vinnie said, reaching for Sonny, pulling him close, pushing his shorts down, out of the way. He took Sonny's cock in his mouth, sucked him the way he always sucked him, slow and hard, taking him deep in his throat. He could almost do this in his sleep _fuck, I wish I **could** , then we'd both be happy—_ But no, his mouth wasn't enough; Sonny wanted what he'd always wanted, his enthusiastic adoration. And Vinnie couldn't make him understand he had no enthusiasm to give.

Vinnie sucked, one hand planted on each of Sonny's buttocks, sucked and turned off his brain and thought about nothing until a bizarre thought intruded itself: he was hungry. He had to stifle a laugh at that, and stifle with it the wild urge to push Sonny backwards onto the bed, stand up and announce, "I'm fucking sick of sucking your cock! I'm going out for a hamburger!" That did make him laugh, which Sonny didn't recognize, muffled as it was by his dick in Vinnie's throat, but Vinnie could tell Sonny liked the way it felt, so he let himself go, kept laughing at the image, of himself saying, "And I'm tired of your come in my mouth, I'm tired of the smell of you always on me, I'm tired of myself, and you, and everything, I'm **tired**! Why won't you let me sleep?" And walking out. Sonny wouldn't be able to come after him, bare-assed. It was a thought . . . .

Too late. The laughter acted as an accelerant, brought Sonny off faster than usual, and here he was, coming in Vinnie's mouth. **Again**. And Vinnie was sick of it.

He'd spit it out once, winning himself Sonny's pissy annoyance (which he'd been looking for) but also his rejected hurt (which he couldn't bear). After that he'd swallowed automatically, not thinking of anything but how the taste of Sonny's come in his mouth now made him think of sleep. _Maybe if I ever get insomnia, I'll be grateful for this. Better'n warm milk._

Today he didn't swallow. He let Sonny withdraw his softening cock, stood up, watching him, smiling, lips closed. Sonny smiled back, and Vinnie shoved him back on the bed, climbed on top of him, straddling him, angry and giddy and so fucking tired. He leaned in for a kiss, and when Sonny opened his lips to him, Vinnie thrust his tongue deep into Sonny's mouth, along with most of Sonny's come. Sonny tried to push him off, but the weight he'd put on, combined with his anger— _I'm angry? Yeah, you're angry. What am I angry about? Name it, pal, name it—_ made him something along the lines of a determined dead weight. Passive resistance, with an edge of fury. Finally Sonny bit him, which made him laugh again, even as it pissed him off still more.

"What the fuck are you **doing**?" Sonny's outrage was hilarious; Vinnie couldn't stop laughing, even when Sonny pushed him off so hard he hit the floor.

Sonny went to the bathroom, and Vinnie could hear him brushing his teeth, which just made him laugh harder. He hadn't felt this alive in a long time. When he comes out— And Sonny was standing over him, the slam of the bathroom door still echoing.

"What is so funny?" Sonny spat. That was upsetting him more than anything else, that incomprehension—he just couldn't fathom what Vinnie was laughing at, and that killed Vinnie's amusement. Vinnie got up, far enough away from Sonny to be out of reach; Sonny would have to come to him to hit him. "What the fuck is **wrong** with you?!" Sonny's anger felt so good; if Sonny was yelling at him, Vinnie could yell back.

"What's the big deal? You expect me to swallow it every fucking morning, and smile, like you're offering me the nectar of the gods—so what's **your** problem, huh?"

Sonny didn't have an answer, so he moved in to swing on him. Vinnie moved back.

"Well? What's the deal? You act like I poisoned you or something—"

Sonny rushed him, hit him hard in the mouth, then in the stomach, while Vinnie punched back. They were both yelling, all frustration and little syntax, not listening, just hitting and yelling, trying to hurt each other any way they could. It was by far the least effective fight they'd ever had, closer to a dual temper tantrum than any kind of real match.

"I'm tired of you using me, of your expecting me to roll over every time you've got an itch!" Somehow this penetrated, caught Sonny's attention.

"And I'm tired of feeling like I'm molesting you every time I touch you! This was your idea, you know—make up your mind what you want!"

Guilt rushed through Vinnie, stopped him, and Sonny hit him again, knocking him down. "Cut it out," he said tiredly, pushed himself up off the floor _for the second time today—and it's not even noon_ away from Sonny. He sat down on the edge of the bed, put on his shoes.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"What difference does it make?" Vinnie shot back, got up, grabbed his car keys, and slammed the door behind him. Something thudded against it a second later.

The car wouldn't start. The alternator that had been threatening to give out finally had; the battery was dead. Vinnie pounded the steering wheel in frustration. _I am not going back in there!_ He tried the ignition again. Nothing. He'd have more luck at the cemetery.

The front door slammed again, and in a moment Sonny was climbing in beside him. "Where the hell are you going?"

"No place, the fucking alternator's out, the battery's dead—" Vinnie started to get out of the car, but Sonny's hand restrained him.

"You know, you don't hafta— There's no law says you gotta stay with me." Sonny's voice was quiet, hard, but not angry. It would have been so much easier if he was yelling. When Vinnie didn't say anything, Sonny said, "If you want to leave, I won't try to stop you." It could almost have been a suggestion. Vinnie didn't know what to say. "What the hell **do** you want? I didn't **ask** you to do this, you know. It was **your** idea!"

"You didn't ask—didn't you notice I was **sleeping**?" This, at least, was concrete, there was nothing nebulous about it.

Sonny rolled his eyes. "You're **always** sleeping! If I didn't wake you up, you'd spend your whole fucking life unconscious! And I got news for you, pal—Sleeping Beauty, you ain't." True enough; in the abstract, it had been Vinnie's idea to suck Sonny off; he'd made the offer months ago, not realizing Sonny was going to—

_What? Want him to do it again? OK, now that's just stupid, no question about it. Of course I should have realized I was setting a precedent._

Still. "That didn't mean I wanted you to wake me up every morning!"

Sonny was looking at him in absolute bafflement. "Am I supposed to know that? You complain if I wake you up—it doesn't matter **what** I'm waking you up for!—but I sure hear about it if I let you sleep through breakfast, and the one time you slept through lunch—"

Sonny had done that a few times, let Vinnie sleep through meals, and no, Vinnie hadn't been happy about it. So, again, a perfectly legitimate question Vinnie had no answer to, no answer beyond, _I don't want to feel like this!_ Sonny wouldn't get that, and what could he do about it anyway?

"You don't wanna swallow? Don't swallow. Jesus." Vinnie still didn't answer, didn't know how to answer. This was Steelgrave conciliation, as much bend as he would ever see. "You don't want to do it anymore? Yeah, OK, sure, fine, whatever, just tell me, will you?"

"Yeah. Yeah." Why did getting what he'd said he wanted feel like being rejected? Why did everything that happened feel like being rejected?

Sonny's hand on his arm again, stroking. "Come on back in the house."

"I don't want— No. I don't wanna go in there."

"You want to go someplace neutral?"

"What could be more neutral than that place?" Vinnie motioned at the little house they'd only been living in a little over five weeks.

Sonny, of course, took offense. "So whaddaya want, the Taj Mahal?"

"I don't care." Vinnie wished Sonny would go away, so he could go back inside and back to bed.

"No kidding. You don't care about anything, you don't want me to touch you—"

"It's not that."

"Yeah." Sonny opened the car door. "Come back in the house. I'll make you some breakfast before you go back to bed." He got out of the car. Vinnie watched him walk back into the house, and inside, closing the door behind him.

_You don't care about anything._ It wasn't true; well, it wasn't exactly true. When Sonny said it, Vinnie wanted to argue it, but if he did and Sonny pressed him about what it was he cared about—nothing came to mind. He was trying to care about things, but he couldn't seem to feel anything.

It was as though the only emotion he could generate was anger. At first the anger would feel good, when it was pouring through him like a red hot river. But afterward, all he felt was ashamed, and that just pushed him further into the pit of depression. Vinnie crossed his arms across the top of the steering wheel, and rested his head on them. "I care about you."


End file.
